Loss for Words
by Dammit Jane
Summary: A great loss has lasting ramifications on their relationship, ItaSaku AU/Nonmass
1. Chapter 1

Warning: unnamed character death

The first thing Sakura is aware of when she wakes up was not the warmth beside her, it is not the lovely orange tint to the morning sky, or the weight draped over her abdomen. It is the pain. As her mind sharpens the pain worsens, her lower back feeling at once inflamed and atrociously bruised. Heaving herself out of bed, she resists the urge to wretch, stumbling with as much grace as she can muster towards her bathroom. It was only when she braces herself over the sink that she becomes acutely aware of the sticky fluid coating her legs.

Taking a shaky breath, she places a glowing green hand to her stomach, sending the same healing chakra waves she sends whenever her time of the month comes (although thanks to her superior medical skill and birth control, it's really more like 6 months). It's early, she thinks, and as the healing chakra does very little to help, she counts back in her head. No. Not early. Late. Then, with horror, she focuses on her abdomen, praying to every god she's ever heard of that she's wrong.

No. No. Not possible. They were so careful. Beyond that, she would have know. She must have known. She could never have missed that. Nor could Itachi, for that matter. And-

Oh god. Oh god, she is bleeding too much.

Bracing herself against a wall, she slides down, painfully conscious of the blood pooling around her.

She knows what to do, she must know what to do. _She's a fucking medic she has to know what to do._

And she does. There is nothing, at this point, nothing that can save whatever had been inside of her. She is crying by now, water mixing with the other fluids on the linoleum.

* * *

It isn't her leaving the bed that wakes Itachi, though it does stir him, nor is it her muffled sobs. It is the smell of blood. Their home is always so clean and sterile and safe, their gear shoved in a washing machine the moment it leaves their bodies'. No hint of the carnage they witness is in their home. Until now. The smell of copper is pungent now, and his eyes snap open, focusing immediately on the puddle of red on the sheets beside him.

He's always been very understanding of her at these times, frustratingly so, Sakura would say. Very accommodating, to the point that she must remind him that she has been dealing with it for years without his help. Because of this, he knows when there is something truly out of the ordinary. His ears pick up the sound of her crying, and he bolts down the hall, unsure of what could have caused such a reaction.

He freezes when he sees her, crouched in a pool of - dear god how much blood was that? - looking haunted and tear streaked. She still hasn't looked up at him, and his eyes flash to her hand, and in a moment of sudden, horrible realization he discerns what has happened.

He approaches her slowly, kneeling to her level and pulling her hand away from her stomach, her other out of her hair. Gathering her in his arms, he brings her to him, tucking her head under his chin. He knows some healing techniques, and he gently sends pulses of chakra through her, desperate to do anything he can for her. Pulling her onto his lap, desperately ignoring the blood, he reaches around her to draw a bath. It's the only thing he can think to do. He lifts her up and sets her gently on the counter, where her arms circle his waist. He holds her for a moment and lets what water rise. When it's several inches deep he untangles her from him, looking at her as she looks away, still not speaking, still barely aware of her surroundings. He feeds her arms through her shirt, helping her to get it off. He repeats this process with her shorts, now horrifically stained, and once she is divested of all her clothing he lays her in the bath. Sitting next to the tub, he takes her hand and she lays her head on his shoulder. They sit that way for a while, and finally he rolls up his sleeves and helps her clean herself. He leaves her for a moment, and goes to the bedroom to strip the sheets, remaking the bed without that dark red reminder. He goes to her drawer, the one that she keeps her sleepwear in, and takes out an old tee-shirt of his, one he knows is her favourite, and a clean pair of underwear. Coming back to the bathroom he helps her to dry and get dressed.

They have no words for each other.

There are so many reassurances he wants to give her, so many curses she would like to scream, but at the moment, all they can bring themselves to do is this. Instead, he does what he has never done, what neither truly thought they would ever need, Itachi takes care of Sakura.

He has seen her grow, all these years, and it was one of the things he came to admire the most about her, how she would not allow herself to rely on anyone, at least not in the form of crippling dependency that had held her back for all of her youth. But the shock of this has rendered her incapable of processing what she needs, and so the duty falls to him. It reminds him, acutely, of taking care of a young Sasuke, and with that thought the image of a younger, softer, pink-haired child takes hold, because his actions now are the closest he's ever felt to a caregiver. A parent.

He takes her back to bed, lies with her, both still silent, until she drifts to sleep. He helps, just a little, by putting her in a light genjutsu, nothing she couldn't break in a heartbeat, but something to give her some sense of calm.

He leaves her, then, to clean the floor. It is only when the last trace of blood has vanished that he realizes what he's done. He has erased their child. The child neither of them knew about. He knows neither had desired the pregnancy, they were no more ready to be parents they had been the moment they met, but the fetus (he can't decide if it's better or worse to call it that) had been a part of them. The first real physical manifestation of their commitment to each other. In a different life, in a different time, they could have loved that child. Could have seen it grow and flourish and _live_.

* * *

When Sakura wakes up, Itachi's arms around her, she tries to speak.

"I didn't- I tried"

He says nothing, doesn't even try to interrupt, and just holds her tighter as her tears cascade.

He won't tell her he understands; he doesn't. He won't tell her anything.

But he will hold her, he will hold her up and back from whatever darkness she feels herself spiraling into.

They never forget this day. And when it comes to this they will always be at a loss for words.

* * *

Thank you so very much for reading this, and reviews (good or bad) are greatly appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

Hello! This is a continuation of 'Loss for Words,' which was started with the intention of being completely stand alone. But I do like writing about these two, and sometimes inspiration strikes enough that I can bull through a full vignette. This is mostly some backstory for the two of them, and a (start of a) look at how the event of the miscarriage effects their relationship.

* * *

Itachi started smoking at the ripe young age of 12 years old. It was one of the few social activities that didn't require being good at small talk, and for a young boy who's early education in socialization was forgone completely, it served as an easy way to integrate himself into the circles of the older shinobi.

There was something remarkable that seemed to come over his teammates and colleagues when they'd step of out a bar and into the street of whatever town they were in. An openness and eagerness to share that none could hope to experience while on a mission. Something about the emptiness of the night and the stillness of the air, after the stuffy and raucous interior, begged for conversation, for grand confessions and meaningful conversations. There was a willingness to listen and a profound need to be listened to that always seemed to present itself.

Whenever he caught the signaling motion out of the corner of his eye, the raised pack or hand to lip motion, he followed out quickly to join. These people wouldn't want to talk to him otherwise. He was both too young and too intimidating to be approached as a friend.

It was Kakashi who had first gotten him started. Noticing his discomfort on one particularly drunken night (during which Itachi was the only sober officer out of seven), he gently pulled his colleague out under the pretense of a smoke break. The silverhaired nin hadn't intended to offer him one, but found himself holding the pack open to him, letting the young boy watch the ritual of lighting and inhaling carefully.

There was something tragically symbolic in seeing the 12-year-old light up regularly, he'd thrown himself into his responsibilities with as much cynicism and stoic acceptance as the oldest veteran. _Memento mori-_ esque, any delusions he'd had of a normal life, a normal _long_ life, up in smoke.

When he was 26 Haruno Sakura was assigned to his team as a temporary medic. Proposed by the Fifth, and often cited with some derision as a 'pet-project' of hers, she began requiring all ANBU teams to keep a medic in rotation for all field work. He knew precious little about the Haruno girl before that, outside of the context of her being his brother's teammate. He knew the reputation she had made for herself, but beyond feeling confident that she wouldn't get them all killed, and having to make the necessary adjustments to formations and strategies, he didn't spare much thought to her.

The first mission was an unremarkable success. She worked quickly, efficiently, and that was as much praise as he could offer her. When they returned the team went out for the customary celebratory drink, and at three in the morning, when most of his teammates were slumped against the bar, he felt the familiar longing building up in his chest. Standing with as much grace as a sober man, Sakura caught his eye with silent questioning. Holding up the pack by way of explanation he tilted his head towards the door in wordless invitation. She followed him out, and it struck him that she appeared was much sturdier than he would have expected. That said, she was 19, a medic, and apprenticed to the most eminent alcoholic of the village, it wasn't surprising that she'd learned to handle her alcohol by this point – he simply couldn't help contrasting her with Sasuke, who would have been passed out by now.

"No, thank you," she said, in response to the proffered cigarette. He nodded his compliance. They were both quiet, a comfortable silence. Him with his hips resting against the railing, her with her back against building, both letting the relative peace of the night wash over them. Contented though she was to simply look at him, it wasn't long before she started speaking. Her eyes were bright and engaged, the alcohol dulling her natural shyness but not her introspective thoughts, emboldening her and giving her carriage a lightness he hadn't seen on the mission.

"You really shouldn't smoke," she told him matter of factly.

"Hn," a noncommittal response.

"Really. I've seen what it does to your body, it's awful for you." Her insistence was endearing, earnestness in her expression and tension in her forehead. She looked down at the beer she'd brought out with them, swirling it around lightly.

He could recognize that pose and those mannerisms, the ones of someone to just wants to talk to anyone who'll listen. It was a quiet night, he had nothing better to do, and she seemed interesting enough to observe. Taking a long draw, he pulled the fag away, feeling the smoke swell in his mouth before letting it out in a gentle sigh.

"Is it?" He didn't need the answer, but she seemed eager to share it.

"It causes a whole myriad of health problems. Tar build up in the lungs, weakened immune system, heart disease, cancer…" she went on in that manner for several minutes, her medic training showing itself as she delved deeper and deeper into the dangers. "And it's disgusting."

Her abrupt shift of tone made him chuckle slightly. Just a slight shaking of his chest and rise and fall of his shoulders, but a chuckle none the less.

"What?"

He didn't answer, only responded with his own question.

"Do you give all your patients this lecture?"

"Of course," she said brusquely.

"I'm not your patient," he countered. The cig was burning low, filter burning, but he steadfastly drew in again.

"No," she said confusedly, unsure why that should signify. "But you are under my care. And my best friend's brother. And my friend. Why shouldn't I be concerned?"

"Do you think I don't know the health risks?" Why he wanted to keep her talking he couldn't say, and he chose to ignore her profession of friendship while supplying more leading questions.

"Of course you do," She said, finishing off the beer, "I'm sure you do. But I know how stubborn Shinobi can be. It's not like telling you you're killing yourself once is going to make much of an impact. Repetition has to be the key."

She seemed to be finished talking, but he wasn't done listening to her. He lit another cigarette, not willing to go back into the bar and share her company.

"You could consider going on missions like todays suicidal. Is that not the same thing?"

She looked up at him, momentarily distracted with examining a weed by her foot. She thought long and hard, probably longer than she actually needed to, before answering with less confidence.

"No…"

He silently invited her to continue, blowing the smoke from his mouth in a long exhale.

"No." She seemed to regain whatever confidence she had lost. "Because a mission like that has a reason, has a justification. Losing your life on a mission can at least have a greater purpose. And I don't see why, after everything you've survived, you'd want to just die from some disease eating away at you. There's so much to live for, that you would throw it away on anything besides the village doesn't make sense to me."

She held his eyes with hers, though he wasn't sure if it was for intensities sake or merely because her mind had begun to wander while she remained fixed on him. His lips almost turned up, and he took a last drag before throwing his cigarette to the ground, stamping it out gently. He took her empty bottle from her hands, and she seemed to come back to reality as she followed him inside.

He didn't quit smoking that night, or even that year. It wasn't until he was 27, and approaching his three month anniversary of dating her, that he smoked his last cigarette.

Now, 32, leaning against that same railing, he catches the eye of the girl across from him, beer in hand, leaning against the wall of the building. She's average height, average build, average everything. He doesn't notice a single thing about her, but he does bum a cigarette off her. He smokes it down to the filter, not bothering to listen to whatever conversations are happening around him. Just reigniting old, bad habits, from when the village was all he had to live for.

 _What's the fucking point_ , he asks himself.

* * *

Not for the first time is she grateful that Itachi is a genius. It saves her the trouble and the heartbreak of explaining exactly why she's handing him back the diamond solitaire. It only takes one sentence for him to fully grasp what took her weeks to accept.

A week later and she's secluded herself in her office; seemingly the only well-lit room in the entire ANBU headquarters. She's buried herself in paper work, pouring over the lab results of an operative's blood test. It's just a nasty virus, nothing a good round of antibiotics can't cure, but devoting all her attention to that is easier than thinking of anything else.

She should try to accept it at some point. Denial can only last so long. But she'd rather die from overwork than heartbreak, she's better than that. It's at least healthier than swinging back half a bottle of vodka, which she'd considered on more than one lonely night. There are some habits she didn't manage to pick up from Tsunade.

She's reading through the results of another patient's physical for the third time, looking for any inconsistency to take up her time. She's looking at the blood pressure again when someone knocks on her door.

"I'm working, Akira," She yells to her assistant. That's the only person who ever knocked on her door here.

"We need to talk, Sakura." Definitely _not_ Akira. She closes her eyes for a moment, trying to find it in herself to send him away. He's one of her closest friends, but he's an Uchiha, and that bitter reminder is the last thing she needs right now. Or maybe it isn't. Maybe that's exactly what she needs.

"Come in, Sasuke," She says with a final sigh.

He comes in without a sound, closing the door behind him and sliding into the chair across from her. She heaves the file in front of her shut and gently dumps it into a filing cabinet in her desk, sealing it with chakra as she locks it. They sit in silence for what feels like an hour. He breaks it in forty seconds.

"Naruto and I've missed you at training." A safe enough topic.

"Yeah, sorry" She says, clinging to the subject like a lifeline, "I know you've got the exams coming up. I've just been so swamped here. With the promotion-"

"Shut up," he interrupts. His gaze catches hers and holds her. "What did you do?" It's cold and brash and drenched in accusation.

The now familiar feeling of guilt wells up like bile in her throat, and she swallows hard before she answers.

"I didn't do anything," she tries to keep her voice firm.

"Bullshit," he says, his cool detachment giving way to real anger. "People don't just break off engagements. I know he never would have left you, the clan didn't even know about you two until you'd ended it, so it wasn't either of them. It must have been something you did."

In any other scenario, she would have been enraged. Enraged and a bit amused. Even now, at 25 years old, his hero worship hasn't lessened. It never occurs to him that Itachi could have done something wrong. He's right, in that.

Now, though, there's just a calm acceptance, and she can't quite bring herself to contradict him. Because she didn't do anything wrong but it is her fault.

"I didn't do anything, Sasuke," she surprises herself with how calm she sounds. She doesn't feel calm. She doesn't know how she feels. Just a jumble of anger and guilt and grief. Something in her face or voice must convince him, because for a long time he doesn't say anything. He just looks at her hard, scanning her face for more answers. None come. Finally, after a good five minutes of silence, he deflates slightly, the tension leaving his body as he sinks into the chair, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

"So what the hell?"

She meets his eyes for a moment, and tries to fight the tears welling.

"I can't have children, Sasuke."

* * *

I may keep going with this, I may not, but I do have a lot I want to do with these two. It may end up being a full length story, but for now I'm keeping it marked as 'complete,' I know that probably doesn't seem like a coherent end, and I know it isn't, it just comes down to how and when I can write.

As always, critique is more than welcome, so long as it's kindly meant.


	3. Chapter 3

It's back! A huge thank you to the people that have reviewed, it's greatly appreciated.

Enjoy :)

Trigger Warning: discussions of miscarriages

* * *

Sasuke drags her to a bar later that week. It's a popular one with Shinobi, he doesn't usually seek social activities, and it really should have been the first thing to tip her off, but he reasons that it's for her sake, that she should get out of the house, and she's so touched and convinced by his concern that she agrees.

 _I can't have children._

He was quiet for a long while after her confession. He understands exactly what that means, especially for a family like his. Itachi's an heir, and he'll need to produce another. There's a long list of criteria for what makes an acceptable Uchiha matriarch, and non-negotiable is the ability to produce children.

He can't imagine, really can't begin to wrap his mind around how this must be hurting her. After everything she's accomplished and fought for, she deserves her happiness.

So he leads her through the door and directs her to the bar, where his brother is sitting nursing a whiskey and waiting for Shisui to return. He looks up at his brothers entrance, and his eyes immediately fix on the spot of pink behind him. He doesn't show his surprise, but there's a sudden tension in his jaw and around his eyes that wasn't there a moment ago.

She feels her breath catch in her throat, tangled with words she wants to say and the wisps of smoke in the air.

"I need a moment, please," she says breathily, turning quickly on her heel and exiting the bar. She feels more than hears Sasuke follow quickly behind her, and she spins to face him,

"I cannot believe you would interfere like this," she whispers to him harshly, hurt and accusatory.

"If you two just sit down and talk-"

"Talking will not change anything about this situation, Sasuke."

"How do you know if you don't-"

"Don't insult me," a biting accusation.

"Jesus, Sakura, I'm not-" but she's on a war path.

"Do you think I haven't gone through every possible option, Sasuke? Do you think I ended things because it was the easiest way out? That I didn't try to find some way of making this possible for us?"

He feels ridiculous, suddenly. Humiliated and completely helpless. Of course, she has. She wouldn't have just thrown Itachi away. The shame creeps up his neck, feeling foolish for thinking he could have somehow saved them.

She sees this and softens, feeling the full weight of his concern for her. Touched, despite how much she wants to kill him.

"I know," she begins, swallowing back her anger, "that you want to help us. But there isn't anything to be done." She seems to be telling herself this as much as him, and she sets her shoulders, a new determination in her eye. She surprises him and pulls him in for a hug, " _Thank you_ , Sasuke."

He returns it awkwardly after a moment, ending it just as quickly.

Sakura steps away from him and pulls her hair back into a ponytail, as she does when she sets to work on a problem.

She goes back in alone, but Sasuke waits outside a few minutes more, quickly joined by Shisui.

"Hey, little cousin," he says gently, forgoing his usual cheer. He offers a cigarette from his pack, but Sasuke just shrugs in refusal.

"Sakura'd kill me."

Shisui sighs in response, "Good."

* * *

She walks back into the bar with a newfound determination. She can do this. She can keep him, even if it's only partially, even if it's only as Sasuke's brother, even if it's just a coworker she sees in a bar. It's a small village. She'll have to see him eventually. She should do this now. Stomach in knots, heart beating so hard she feels it in her throat, she hoists herself up onto the barstool next to Itachi, who has been staring into his whiskey in a rare moment of paralysis. He can't possibly stay, he can't bring himself to leave. He knows, instinctually, that until she tells him she wants him to go he will be rooted to the barstool.

"How are you?" It is the most painful question she's ever asked him. How is he supposed to answer? That he hasn't slept in a week, that he is taking every mission he can to get out of the village, that he thinks she looks beautiful but incredibly tired and he is worried for her? None of that will help her.

He doesn't want to make small talk. He can barely tolerate it with coworkers, avoids it entirely with strangers, the last person he can do this with is her.

"Well." It's more than he usually gives strangers. It's the least he's given her since their first mission.

It hurts her in a way she isn't prepared for, cuts through her like a shard of ice, and immediately she realizes what a ridiculous idea this was, and why she'd avoided it until now. She's quiet for a moment, and sighs as the tension leaves her body.

"This won't work either, will it?" He knows she doesn't want him to answer. She feels like she's about to cry. They sit side by side for what might be an hour, the silence heavy and suffocating. Their arms brush a few times, and they immediately retract as if they've been burned. Both feel words catching in their throats, and they steal glances at each other every few minutes. She wants to lay her head on his shoulder, take some kind of comfort in him, but holds herself back. She can't look pathetic, not now, not to him.

But still, neither of them can leave. They feel every exhale, just as painfully aware of the other as always. She looks to the bar, to the bottles lining the shelves. There's a bottle of bright green melon liquor she'd bullied him into drinking once. She looks down at her hands. They're crossed with slim silver scars, she wonders how many of them came from a one of their training sessions. Idly, she wonders if there's _anything_ in the world she couldn't find a way to connect back to him. She feels his eyes on her occasionally, but doesn't return the glance until she's certain he's looked away.

She looks exhausted, truly. He takes in the circles under her eyes (always just under the surface, rarely this prominent). She's slouched and moves with a slight lag he doesn't see often. Some hair escapes her ponytail and brushes her neck, and he almost moves to brush it aside out of habit, but holds himself back. It occurs to him that he's only told her she's beautiful a handful of times, and always in halting, nervous language. She had never seemed to desire the assurance, but he remembers now the way her whole body would hum with delight from the few compliments he had given her, the way her eyes would light up, and he wonders why he didn't tell her every day. He then wonders if he'll ever be able to see that expression again.

The way she had spoken was so careful, too similar to the carefully constructed medic persona he's seen her adopt when trying to comfort patients, particularly the ones she had no strong attachment to. It had almost disgusted him, the idea of simply pretending nothing between them had ever occurred. It was why he made no effort to further the conversation. He would have all or nothing, when it came to her.

A fight breaks out a some point, nothing serious, an arm wrestling match ending poorly for one person, but there's an outcry loud enough to draw them out of their bubble.

A new wave of sadness washes over her, and she forces herself to stand.

"Take care of yourself, Itachi," She says, desperately wishing she'd said anything else. She just wants to talk to him, to hear his voice, but suddenly she's in a hurry to exit, and it's the first thing she can think of.

He looks almost confused.

"And you, Sakura." She exits quickly, rushing past Sasuke and Shisui, who are still waiting outside the bar, not giving them the opportunity to ask any questions. How to explain how profound an hour of silence had been?

A minute or two after her exit, Itachi emerges as well, looking almost lost. His expression doesn't invite questions, and Sasuke and Shisui both give him a slight nod before going into the bar themselves, leaving Itachi to his sudden solitude.

* * *

In the quiet of the night Itachi suddenly feels the weight of his isolation. Despite his relatively lonely childhood, he's never been alone. His clan is omnipresent. When he is - was - with Sakura, he'd experiences his few moments of reprieve, and he'd become selfish. He'd wanted that reprieve for the rest of his life. He'd wanted that freedom, that comfort, that blissful solitude he only felt when he was with her, and he'd wanted it binding. He should have realized from the beginning, from the moment he met her, that she deserved more than he could offer. His clan wasn't an added bonus to her. At first he'd thought she was merely indifferent. But it had gone deeper than that, and he hadn't realized until he was too in love with her to even think of ending it. His clan was a nuisance, an enemy combatant, and something she tolerated for her love of him and his brother. His family she liked well enough. Mikoto was kind and nurturing, even Fugaku was appropriately respectful once she had come into her own, but they were still _Uchiha_. Proud, ambitious, and sometimes cruel.

Of course she wouldn't want to marry into that. Of course she wouldn't be willing to put herself through a lifetime of having to constantly defend herself. They would have allowed her, because she carried political leverage and could pass on useful genes to the next generation, but they never would have accepted her. And then...

An ectopic pregnancy. She'd stopped the bleeding and halted the damage, but that afternoon, after she'd woken up and regained her usual medic's poise, she asked him to transport them to the hospital, and Shizune had had to perform an immediate surgery as Sakura's chakra gave out and the bleeding started again. They'd removed a Fallopian tube. She could still technically have children, Shizune had haltingly explained, but it would be difficult, and likely a lengthy process, and they couldn't rule out the possibility that it could happen again, and this time with more dire consequences.

They'd stayed together for five more weeks, Sakura becoming more and more withdrawn, more and more nervous at each mention of his family. She'd stopped by for dinner one night, officially in the capacity of Sasuke's teammate, as, officially, she had yet to be recognized by the clan, and Mikoto had started gently hinting at the what Sakura could expect as matriarch.

That had been too much, and Itachi mentally berated himself for not pulling her from the conversation earlier.

This is what she could expect as his wife; constant needling and hinting. It would be subtle at first, but she was already 25, and as far as the Uchiha were concerned, already late in fulfilling certain obligations. The hinting would become reminding, would become outright harassment, and would likely follow her the rest of her life. She would be branded a failure, they could demand he remarry, and she would live surrounded by hostility.

He couldn't ask it of her.

But selfishly he had left it for her to decide, and when she had handed him back the simple ring he hadn't been able to fight her, and had to remind himself of how utterly selfish it would be of him to do so.

But now, after reveling in the glory of her presence for a whole hour, pained and stilted as it may have been, he is overcome with selfishness.

He will defend her. Protect her. Even if it is from his own family.

He will give up his position. She's never cared about it anyway.

It's all or nothing.

* * *

Hello, hello. It's finals so I finally got back to this in order to do some productive (?) procrastination. As with last time, this is still technically finished, but I sincerely hope to add to it.

And, as always, feedback is more than welcome.


	4. Chapter 4

Innumerable thanks to those of you who reviewed, favorited, and followed. I hope you enjoy this newest installment.

* * *

When she gets home she does what is quickly becoming a routine. She kicks off her shoes, methodically straightens her apartment, and, after half an hour of silence, begins to talk to herself. Not to herself, not exactly, but to an imaginary Itachi; listing every one of her frustrations, rehashing every argument they should have had, but never did. At some point her cleaning takes her into the bathroom, and she stops in front of the mirror. The tears start a few minutes into looking at her reflection.

" _We sometimes weep in front of mirrors not to inflame self-pity, but because we want to feel witnessed in our despair_."*

She'd read it once before, in a thin book of poetry about heartbreak and depression. She'd passively enjoyed it at the time, but now it crosses her mind daily.

It makes her feel slightly justified. She is not the first person to do this, perhaps some part of what she feels is normal. After a few minutes of crying – the tears turn to sobs and she doubles over against the counter – the crying is swept away by the familiar wave of exhaustion.

She shrugs off her clothes and lets them stay on her floor. She'll pick them up tomorrow, when she goes through the same routine.

She feels hollowed out, after tonight. And cold. A chill sets into her fingers and feet, two sweaters and some heavy socks aren't quite enough to smother it. She clutches a mug of tea and curls into herself on the couch. She doesn't check the time, but it's probably nearing one in the morning. She has to be up in six hours, but she's not concerned. The past few weeks she's been sustaining herself on protein bars, coffee, and cold denial. She knows it shows, but she can't quite bring herself to care. She's halfway though her cup of tea when a familiar knock sounds, and she's already opening her door – running on muscle memory – before she realizes why it's so familiar.

It takes all of fifteen seconds for her to find her voice, but just before she can force out a strangled 'what are you doing here?' he speaks.

"I want to talk," he says, almost frantically.

"Now," it's half statement half dumbfounded question.

" _Please_ ," he begs, "please."

"Ok," leaves her mouth before she can stop it, "ok."

She moves aside, back against the door as she closes it gently, eyes never leaving him as he makes his way into the small space. Her apartment isn't big, but it feels even smaller with him here. His very presence makes the room feel cramped, weighs down on her and makes her heart constrict. It's so painfully familiar. Five weeks ago he was standing in their kitchen making tea, sitting on their couch with a scroll, taking up half of their dresser with his gear.

He looks uncomfortable. There's an edge to his expression, tension around his eyes and mouth.

"What?" She asks. She doesn't trust herself to say anything else.

He opens his mouth and closes it quickly, and before he can say whatever it is he came to say, she finds herself hit by a sudden burst of anger. He wants to talk now, of all fucking times. It takes a god damn miscarriage and a broken engagement for him to want to have a conversation. And he's still hesitating.

"If you want to talk, actually talk. Otherwise you need to go."

The coldness in her voice surprises her just as much as him, but it seems the push he needs.

"I don't want this. I want to be with you," the tension leaves him immediately, and, like a dam breaking, he forges ahead, looking her dead in the eye.

"I love you. I want to be with you. I will do anything to make that possible," he reaches her in a few quick strides, taking her hands in his, privately noting how cold she is, "what can I do?"

She doesn't answer, just looks at him, almost unseeing, confused and overjoyed and still angry.

"Please, Sakura," he asks, voice straining. She pulls her hands away and moves past him to sit on the couch. He catches her arm lightly in his, turning her to face him. "If you don't want this, I swear, I will leave now. If you want me to go, if you never want to see me again, I promise you I will, but if you want this at all, please let me try to fix it."

"Of course, I do," She says softly. She sits down, and they find themselves locked in another pressing silence. She worries if she starts speaking now she'll start screaming. Or crying. He worries if he says more he'll ruin any possible progress he's made.

Finally, finally, she trusts herself enough to broach the first, glaring point.

"Your family will never allow us to be together if they find out about- about my health issues. And say what you want, but they won't be moved on that," she tries to force as much finality into her voice as she can, it's too much to let herself hope.

"That doesn't matter," he begins.

There's something about Uchiha men that leads them to say exactly the wrong thing when they're trying desperately to do otherwise.

"Yes, it does," she forces out, heart leaping into her throat and blocking her lungs. "It matters to _me._ I will not take your family away from you."

"You would not be taking my family from me, Sakura. If there is a rift, it will be of their making."

She offers no response besides a sharp inhale.

"If," he continues, cautious and gentle, "they should attempt to interfere, Sasuke will make an excellent heir."

She feels the breath nearly get knocked out of her. It's far more generous an offer than she could ever have expected, and she's not ignorant of what it would truly cost him to follow through on that. More than she could ever knowingly ask of him.

"I can't ask you to do that," she says softly.

"You don't need to ask me," he answers firmly.

"Itachi- " she starts, exasperated. She doesn't want false hope where there can be none. "It wouldn't just be the clan."

 _Please understand_.

"You are enough."

That's nearly enough to send her over the edge. If it was any other time she would tear up, throw herself on him, bask in the glory of the praise. It is, at it's core, all she has ever wanted to hear.

And it does no good now.

"I know you want children. Please, Itachi, I won't take that from you," I won't rob you of a future.

" _You are enough_ ," He repeats.

He can see in her eyes that she doesn't quite believe him, and he curses himself for not saying so sooner. She is more than enough, more than he possibly could deserve, more compassionate, resilient, exquisite than he can ever describe. He should never have left her in doubt of that.

"I should have told you sooner," he finishes weakly.

The doubt is overtaken by anger, suddenly.

"Yeah," she says bitterly, "sooner."

 _Sooner, sooner, sooner_ , echoes in her mind. Would sooner really change anything?

She pushes off the couch and makes her way to the kitchen, pouring a glass of water. She needs to _do_ something.

"Could you really be okay with never having children?" She asks bluntly, trying to keep the hope, and the fear, from her voice.

"Yes," he answers after a pause, "If it is a choice between children and you, healthy and whole, you are who I chose."

One more pretty declaration made too late. She actually snorts. Then starts laughing. Then starts crying.

"You know what the fucking joke of this is, Itachi? It took a miscarriage for you to get the fuck past this emotional repression," she doesn't want to scream at him, really she doesn't. She doesn't want everything good and precious and _pure_ about them to be corrupted by an instant of fleeting rage. Once she starts, however, she can't quite stop. She trips over the arguments she's rehearsed in the mirror.

"We lost a _baby_ and we didn't talk to each other," she continues. The word, the tenderness of it, pierces her like a hot poker, stoking the growing anger.

"What the fuck will it take for you to talk to me in a year? In five? We might not _live_ that long. I have stuck with it because I love you, I've gotten good at guessing what you're thinking, but I cannot guess on this. And I cannot spend my life being mad at you for not answering questions I can't even bring myself to ask you!" Manic laughter and sobs punctuate her speech, and she shoves off the hand that extends to her. She paces from her couch to her kitchen and back, a familiar pattern she usually makes when she's anxious. What he sees in her face when she turns to face him again is shocking and painful.

She looks more _hurt_ than he's ever seen her. He remembers on mission, one truly terrible mission, that ended with him cradling her against his chest as blood spilled out from a wound at her shoulder. Her breathing had quickened drastically, her movements had slowed, and her face had contorted into an expression of anguish. It was the first time he'd ever seen her look truly afraid, he had promised himself it would be the last if he could help it.

But here she is standing before him, a bit too thin, a bit too tired, but overall healthy, looking more frightened and devastated than he has ever seen her. And it's his fault.

 _Why do you want to be a shinobi?_ His perplexed sensei had asked, the first day he'd arrived at the academy, barely six years old.

 _To protect people_ , had been his reply.

How spectacularly he has failed.

He stands only to fall on his knees before her, arms wrapping around her hips and forehead against her knees, head down in shame. He doesn't cry, hasn't been able to cry since he was a child, but he shakes violently.

"I'm so sorry," he chokes. She's quite for a good several minutes, breathing sharply through her nose, while her fingers slowly tangle in his hair. She slides down to the floor and forces him to meet her eyes. She's still crying.

He looks smaller, somehow. Itachi is not a tall man, but he has a way of carrying himself that makes him seem, if not large, at least magnanimous.

Six years of knowing him, of being intimately wrapped around his life, and she's never seen him looking so helpless. She's never seen him in this kind of pain. Despite how angry she still is she takes his face between her hands and, after a moment of searching, presses her forehead against his, squeezing her eyes shut and willing herself to be able to do anything, anything, to take away this hurt they're both feeling.

She's relived. In a few days she'll be ashamed of the feeling, but for now she's just _crushingly_ relived that she isn't the only one in pain.

Eventually they find themselves wrapped around each other on the floor, leaning against the couch. She sits between his legs, twisted to press her head against his chest, arms around his waist while he strokes her hair and back. The anger has evaporated – for now – and they allow themselves, however briefly, to just draw comfort from each other. Again, as they always seem to, they find themselves scared to speak, this time, though, Itachi is the one to make the push.

"I'm ready to talk," he says softly. She believes him.

* * *

* _Bluets_ , Maggie Nelson

OH BOY, OH GOSH. This was a hard one to write, but it definitely felt the most pressing.

I can only imagine, growing up in the world they did, that healthy emoting and communication are not the foundations for a lot of their relationships. While I've never experienced a miscarriage, I have experienced the insecurity and fear that comes with a lack of openness, the rest is purely limited to empathy. I've tried to be delicate with the subject, but my understanding only goes so far. If there is anything glaringly wrong, anything you feel was not handled with care, please, please, tell me.

Reviews are (now and forever) highly appreciated, and a huge thank you to 'Fanofthisfiction' for your faithful feedback.


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